Sara Sidle Figures it Out
by SuperKateB
Summary: On an average Tuesday, Sara snaps. And, on an average Tuesday, Sara finally figures it all out. (Some implied slash, couple kept a secret for amusement value.)


"**Sara Sidle Figures it Out"  
****A CSI Fanfiction  
****Written by Kate "SuperKate" Butler**

It was around 2 a.m. on a slow Tuesday when Sara Sidle finally snapped.

She stormed down the white-walled corridors of the Las Vegas Crime Lab, her high-heeled boots clattering on the tile. She knew far well, down to the very core of her being, that the camel's back had finally broken beneath the heaping pile of straw it'd been carrying; her naturally-thin patience, after months of abuse, finally had worn out.

The door slammed hard against the wall as she threw it open and boldly strode into her supervisor's office, Big Mouth Billy Bass singing gleefully above her head as the office windows rattled and the door crashed shut behind her.

"Spit it out," she demanded. "I want to hear it."

Gil Grissom, night-shift supervisor and certified genius in a number of fields, glanced up from the paperwork he'd been working on, confusion marring his usually thoughtful expression. He removed his glasses. "Excuse me?"

"Who is she?" Sara grabbed the nearest chair and straddled it, her dark eyes focused intently on his face. "I'm done pretending I don't know, and pretending that she doesn't exist, so tell me – who?"

He replaced his glasses and, returning to the task at hand, shrugged slightly. "I don't know what you're talking about," he replied, tone cool.

She stomped a foot on the floor. "Oh, yes you do." Her jaw set stubbornly, and his blue eyes sparked over the top of his glasses. "Grissom, I have spent close tot four years trying to get you to date me. Four years flirting with you, coming on to you, asking you out to dinner, and making it as blatantly obvious as I can without injuring my pride that I am very attracted to you." He resumed writing as she said this, his eyes dropping away; for a brief moment, she saw a glimmer of embarrassment – or was it guilt? – flutter across his features. "You're never willing to take the next step, even after you flirt with me, so I think it's time you told me who your girlfriend is."

Silence overtook the office – mostly dark, thanks to Gil's odd penchant for working in dim lighting – as the middle-aged man capped up his pen and removed his glasses, folding in the arms and setting them neatly on the desk. "Sara," he sighed, interlacing his fingers atop the forms he'd been filling out, "I don't have a girlfriend. Don't you think I would have told you and the other CSIs if there was a woman in my life?"

Sara arched a slender eyebrow. "You're kidding, right? You're more closed-off about your personal life than Sanders is about listening to new genres of music."

He frowned, leaning back in his seat. The discomfort of the situation percolated through the empty spaces, and his gaze rose to lock hers, her immense intensity immediately and equally met. "You have so little faith in me, Miss Sidle," he responded, crossing his arms over his chest. "I would tell you."

"Fine." She leaned heavily on the front of the chair, still staring at him, her dark hair falling from behind her shoulders and rimming her face. "Then tell me."

"There's no one, Sara."

"Is it Cath?"

Gil's brow tightened. "I told you, Sara. There's really no one."

"Sophia?" He sighed and rolled his eyes, and she pressed forward. "Maybe that philosophy-spouting new lab tech, Mia?"

The supervisor's lips pursed, and the growing annoyance was evident in his voice as he shook his head. "For the last time, Sara, I do not have a girlfriend sequestered away in some dark corner." He paused for a moment, sighing heavily. "If you must know, I have personal reasons for not responding to your advances, but they're trivial and unimportant."

Her curiosity piqued immediately, and she crossed her arms under her breast. "Oh, really?"

He nodded.

"Try me, Grissom."

He gritted his teeth. "Sara, I'm not doing this."

"Yes, you are," she barked back adamantly, her eyes lowering. "Try me."

The silence returned, stifling and heavy, and it settled around their bodies and onto their shoulders as they continued to stare at one another without wavering. Great admiration for her boss aside, she knew – perhaps instinctively, perhaps from experience – that forcing the impervious Gil Grissom would require either an act of God, or an act of logic. And, as the scientist daughter of stalwart atheists, the former option did seem more than a bit unlikely.

And then, suddenly, she felt an epiphany creep over her form in the silence of her supervisor's office, washing slowly over her body. It climbed into her mind via her toes and began to clamber its way up her legs and torso, spreading its tingling sensation to her arms and fingertips, basking her breasts, shoulders, and neck in its warmth before finally settling in her brain and making itself quite comfortable.

She shot from her chair like a rocket, toppling it in the process.

"Jesus, Grissom!" she shrieked, wide-eyed as she gaped down at him. Surprised by her sudden animation, Gil's mouth hung open. "Which one is it? Sanders? Stokes? _Warrick_!"

The last name was punctuated not only with her voice cracking, but with the sight that was Gil Grissom's face turning very, very red. He moved to respond, but before he could, Sara threw up her hands and began to pace across his office. "I should have guessed!" she decided, shaking her head in dismay. "Guy lives alone, eats alone, obsesses about work, turns down a gorgeous younger woman, isn't even remotely interested in his ex-stripper coworker…" She smacked herself in the forehead. "With this kind of investigative skill, it's a small miracle I made it to CSI Level 3!"

Again, Gil's jaw began to wiggle, but she silenced him by raising a hand. "You know what? I don't want to know." The decision was plainly stated, and accompanied by the hollow sound of her feet on the tile as she backed up towards the door. "Your personal life is definitely none of my business, especially now. I would appreciate not hearing about all the nasty details of whatever you do with Sanders, Stokes, and/or Warrick."

Big Mouth Billy Bass sung merrily as she slid out the door and nearly smashed into Greg. They mumbled apologies to one another and she continued in her ridiculous clip down the hallway, glancing briefly over her shoulder just in time to see Greg disappear into Grissom's office.

"Wow, Sara, you look like you've seen a ghost," Nick commented as she burst into the staff lounge and, in one fluid motion, grabbed a can of soda and drank most of it in a few frenzied gulps. "What happened?"

She sunk into a chair and shook her head. "You don't want to know," she replied breathlessly, downing another few greedy swallows of her beverage. The Texan watched her carefully as she paused, brow furrowing. "Hey, Nick…"

"Yeah?"

"Isn't it just about time for Greg's break?"

The expression on her companion's face became more confused as he nodded slightly, glancing down at the newspaper he'd been reading before she'd come rushing into the room. "Yeah, I guess," he replied with a half-shrug. "He mumbled something to Cath about grabbing something to eat, and then he disappeared." The paper dropped as he glanced at Sara, whose dark eyes were once again the size of dinner plates. "Why?"

If brilliant epiphanies felt so distinctively like nausea, Sara decided as she lobbed her can into the nearest trash, she could do without them.

Nick continued to stare as, groaning, Sara Sidle lulled her head against the back of her chair. "You know how Grissom always says that the evidence will help us figure out all the answers?"

"Yeah… So?"

"So, let's just say that there are some things that, for the betterment of the world, no one should ever figure out."

**Fin.**

Disclaimer: CSI belongs to CBS and Jerry Bruckheimer. That's not me. So don't expect it to be, okay? Cool.

Author's Notes: Just a twisted little idea I had, being as I am such a CSI slasher. The whole fic was actually based around the line "Jesus, Grissom! Which one is it? Sanders? Stokes? _Warrick_!" This is what I do during my college classes that are teaching me how to be a teacher.

(At this rate, I'll be teaching my seventh graders how to write fanfic, rather than, you know, grammar.)

March 15, 2005  
8:59 p.m.


End file.
